


Vinyl

by sabrinaelouardi98



Category: Narcos (TV), Supernatural, The Catch (TV)
Genre: (whole lot of badassery), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholic Dean, Anal Sex, Angst, Crossover, Demon!Dean, Drug Use, Drug-Induced Sex, F/F, F/M, Feminist, Fertility Trauma, Gun Violence, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Other, Past Violence, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, multifandom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-08 17:32:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7766956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabrinaelouardi98/pseuds/sabrinaelouardi98
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>❝Baby drop them bones, baby sell that soul, baby fair thee well. Somebody gotta, gotta raise a little hell.❞ — Dorothy, Raise Hell</p>
<p>SEX. DRUGS. ROCK Nʼ ROLL. Welcome to Music City in the ʼ80s.</p>
<p>Witty, acerbic, and in-charge — Alice Jackson is damn good at her job. Investigating fraud, slander, libel, and stirring young blood fresh in the pot. From Queen to Nicks, her ruthlessness is incorruptible. So when a stranger with black eyes and a penchant for the Crossroads Blues and a makes her a deal to triple her wealth and political standing...well, she canʼt refuse. </p>
<p>And when said stranger robs her of everything: her soul, her wealth, and her queenly title in ...well, thereʼs your cue. </p>
<p>Welcome to Sin City, ladies and gents, and the sexiest game of cat-and-mouse to hit the Mason-Dixon since Bonnie-and-Clyde. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>This is a Supernatural AU with influences from ABC’s the Catch and NETFLIX’s Narcos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 銀 (Silver)

 

❀❀❀❀

PART ONE  
_____________

銀  
Silver

❀❀❀❀


	2. Chapter 1: Desperado (1)

 

 

> _Sabrina Elouardi_  
>  _Vinyl_  
>  _Copyright © 2016_

 

** **

 

 **ONE**  
Desperado  
___________

“Desperado, sitting in an old Monte Carlo,  
a man whose heart is hollow.”  
— _Rihanna_

 **1**  
_Alice_     
Yokohoma, Japan    
Ōsaka No Byōin  
June, 1989  
11:00 AM  
_____________________

    **Youʼre going to die here, Miss Jackson, and hellʼs an absolute bitch for girls like you.**

    The words are an echo.

    Over-and-over, over-and-over, they play in my head like a vinyl that wonʼt stop spewing some pulpy teen shit into a dive bar. Theyʼre not a memory, because memories are dirty, not saintly sounding. Toxic.

   You remember something and youʼre fixated on it, like the way you might be fixated on some old flameʼs jawline, like youʼre fixated on a bone-crushing high from coke, or the fixation on a wad of fresh singles in your hands.

     But this manʼs words, theyʼre trapped...there. Singing in angelic harmony, wrapped around my mind like wedding lace. Theyʼre so fluid, so cohesive, like each word was made to be next to each other — inky and seductive, dark and delicious.

    _Youʼre going to die here, Miss Jackson, and hellʼs an absolute bitch for girls like you._

    Damn it.

     I donʼt get paid enough to do this job.

**2**

      _Shoot first, asks questions later, Alice._

     The _Ōsaka No Byōin_ mental institution has been deserted for decades; so primitive and so old that the records book have shit on it. Slinking in the shadows, in the dead of day, the Ōsaka saint is perched among the damned, deceased waterfront of the slums. Graffiti splatters the marble walls as I cruise behind the asylum, and houses are sandwiched next to each other.

       Like I said.

       Filthy, nasty, and just plain unsanitary.

      Look to your left and plants grow off of plants, leeching off the sediment and the foliage, feeding of the smell of rotting plants or rotting corpses. I canʼt tell the difference, and to be honest, I really donʼt care. Iʼm a PI, lack of attachment comes with the job description.

      Silence, however, does not.

      If you soak in the stink long enough, youʼd realize the same thing. As I creep up on the asylum, ever so slowly, like a vine suffocating a hickory tree — the silence stinks like the metallic scent of the blood in water.

      Its essence is repulsive, hiding in the shadows of the sun, but if the man I was assigned to track down was really inside this asylum, it wouldnʼt be quiet. The bolted door would rattle, the walls would shake in their skin, there would be _some_ evidence of human life.

      And there was evidence of...life.

      But I doubt it was human.

      Flexing my finger muscles, I crack my bones  and grab my lock-picks — listening to a ragged, choked gasp against the door. Knuckle deep in the lock, my fingers are caged, wedged inside the lock with irate impatience, and using my spare hand, my bobby pin joins the lock-pick. Prying, pricking, clicking...

      _Scritch, scritch._

      And just like that, Iʼm in.

      Guns up, the edge of my knife grazing the small of my back, I move. My fingers are tracing the icy walls, darkness swallowing my vision whole, and everything appears decadent — the halls winding and long, torturous and glaring. The lights flicker, and like a lost little lamb, Iʼm drawn to the slaughter. Hungry. Insatiable. The mice hiss and squeak as the smell of disinfectant is...well, gross, frankly.

      But somebodyʼs gotta pay the bills.

      “Mister Alastair Sinclair?”

       No response. Just a whiteness, making me want the solace of the outdoors. Puke-inducing white.

   White, white, _white_ hallways of endless file cabinets douse the floorboards as I look for his file, or some indication heʼs here.

   White, white, _white_ withered flower petals seem to weep at the sight of flesh-and-bone nearby. Itʼs as if Iʼm walking into a trap, waiting, anticipating the hunt.

     So I do what I can. I follow instinct.

      “Iʼm an American from Nashville, Mister Sinclair. Hired by a PR firm from your partnerʼs record company, Jackson, Pritt, & Co. Iʼm here to take you home, sir...”

     Not necessarily true.

     For starters, Iʼm Danish.

     Secondly, Iʼll probably end up extorting as much money as I can from his scrawny ass.

     Blackmail pays the bills, ladies and gentleman.

   Keep that in mind the next time you track a man with a fake alias — making a total of $60,000 to some slum in Japan to snort $30,000 worth of it on cocaine — and end up paying a generous amount out of your own pocket for a flight to Nowheresville.

    Like I said, I donʼt get paid enough for this job.

    “Mister Sinclair?” I repeat. “ _Mister Sinclair_ —”

 **3**  
Alice    
Yokohoma, Japan   
Ōsaka No Byōin  
June, 1968  
11:00 AM  
_____________________

Youʼre going to die here, Miss Jackson.

  “ _Mama_?” 

_Distorted. Everythingʼs distorted. Blurred. Blink twice, youʼll see it better. Blink twice._

    _Blinktwice, blinktwiceblicktwice —_

_Papa grips my hand tighter as my fingertips flutter against the strange patterns on the wall. Feathery, butterfly caresses. But...no, not Papa. We approach her, she has Papaʼs eyes, smoldering mocha brown, like her hair, and theyʼre all so warm. So, so, warm. But then there is. Fear, in her eyes. Fear in her vulnerable little body..._

     “ _Mama_...”

  _I donʼt know if itʼs me speaking...itʼs so distorted, so troubled, so...undecipherable. She struggles against the silver restraints as they slice into her skin. Drawing blood, hissing, sizzling, the smoke sifting into the atmosphere..._

     “Mama!”

      _Screams. There are screams._

     “You...bastard! You keep me locked in here, and then you bring her here!”

      _Thereʼs anger in Papaʼs eyes. Guilt, remorse, rage, contempt. She desperately thrashes against the restraints on the bedspread. She cries. Crystalline tears. Tears of pure gold. Close to breaking the bed. Tears...that me cry. Crying, so much crying. The screams are deafening, gut-wrenching._

     “Open my arms; I want to hold my baby! I want to hold my daughter!”

      _She is gruff, demanding, the scent of cough syrup wafting from her mouth. Papa restrains me. Muttering something coherently. Always muttering._

     “Mama...”

     Run, baby, run.

_Clutching the bedside. So much wailing. And bawling. Palms clinching and clinching. Unfurling like rose petals and closing like a rose bud._

    Pick me up. Pick me up, Papa. Pick me up, please.

    _I donʼt remember his face. Only the...iron door. Studded with metal, barbed teeth. I thrash in his grip; papaʼs grip Writhing, coiling and uncoiling. A serpent escaping its prey. But when I stare at her eyes, I see too many thingsthingsthingsthings—_

_A nightmare. The air is so damp I feel high. I see eyes, sclerotic eyes, eyes that are like brown blood, bodies wrapped hastily in linen sheets. Blood, a sea of red, everywhere. Wailing. So much wailing. Iʼm crying. Shattering the silence. Splashing the shimmering blood, submerging, panicking._

_A Man hovers over Mamaʼs body. Now dead body. stands before me. Slick, combed, gelled hair. Beady, beady, caramel irises. So dark, so black, so lifeless...crisp, so crisp. Flashing lights, cuffs, eerie shadows...whispers, so many whispers._

    Youʼre going to die here, Miss Jackson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I don’t own Supernatural — for those of you wondering about why the hell the copyright sign is up there. I don’t own Sam, Dean, Crowley, Cas, I don’t own Javier Peña and I don’t own The Catch.
> 
> However, I do own the plot and the premise and if I ever get published in the future...I don’t want it to get stolen. So, please don’t steal the premise because I have a very distinct writing style and a very distinct way of weaving plot together and I can tell when plagiarism is plagiarism. So stay in school, kiddos. 
> 
> Also, it’s heavily implied, but Alice isn’t American. She’s a biracial baby, half Danish and half Japanese. Yay for diversity c:


	3. Chapter 1: Desperado (2)

 

 

 **ONE**  
Desperado  
____________

“Iʼm not trying to go against you; I can be a lone wolf with you.”  
— _Rihanna_

 **1**  
_Alice_     
Yokohoma, Japan  
Ōsaka No Byōin  
June, 1989  
11:00 AM  
_____________________

      _**Knock knock.**_

     My head pulses, throbbing against the base of my skull. Clutching my gun, I reach a door — studded with iron and silver spires, barbed teeth, like a prison door.

      Japanese gods and goddesses, glass figurines, they litter the floor and a musky scent hits me as I glance at the rusting, rotting walls.

    The branches of hickory trees are gnarled around the windows, and blood oozes to the soles of my feet. I hear a masculine groan, and I see something black and hungry kiss the door-pane. It   buzzes like a hive of bees, and my fear is evaporated by paranoia.

      _Knock knock._

      “Mister Sinclair, for chrissake, Iʼm not the DEA, Iʼm a PI here to get you away from this shithole. Open the door, and get out.”

      I inhale the city from afar — diesel and hydrogen fueled. There are  dishes beside the the door; dirty platters in a sargasso sea of iridescent mold.

     Flies congregate by the junk, eating the trash and soon, Iʼm hopping over a black tide of flies and their stench that thrusts my stomach forward, and _strangles_ it. Gripping my gun, I twist the doorknob ever so gently...

     ... _and his teeth find my flesh._

      The black tide returns and it licks away the lively corpse of Alastair Sinclair in-front of me. His innards are clawed at. Searching, seeking, urging. Heʼs fucking coated in flies, and to that, he drapes himself in blankets, shuddering impulsively, and attempting to shiver as cobwebs cling to him — his body shriveling.

    My neck bleeds, gushes, _pours_ , and as I stare at Alastair, my skin is wedged in-between his teeth and he growls.

      _Son-of-a-goddamn bitch._

     My knife hits his jugular. Blood spluttering onto the floor. Gripping the plates, I _whip_ them at Alastair — slowing him down. Raising my gun, my back hits the walls and the bugs, the goddamn _bugs_ , they swirl. Swirl around my feet, my vision.

      My eyesightʼs distorted, blurred slightly; an endless sea of milky blackness, soupy darkness, and with that — a shudder runs through my spine. Shiver after shiver snakes into my control; impaling it, severing it, shattering it. And then...itʼs cold.

      So, so, _cold_.

      The blood crusts, caking against my skin, swallowing any paleness to it. Gritting my teeth, the pain is unbearable.

    Lunging, Alastairʼs teeth rake my shoulder and Iʼm back on the cold, hard floor and I writhe underneath him — sticky crimson blood jetting out of my neck, my head throbbing horribly.

     Thereʼs pounding.

     God-awful pounding. Pounding that makes the room spin; pounding that makes me feel my heartbeat through the blood coiling, hissing, and snarling in my ears. I should fight; I can fight.

     A man or woman of any size lays a hand on me, theyʼre gonna bleed out in under a minute. Statistically proven. But todayʼs not my day to fight, and this man is nothing less than a fresh kill.

    “You police?” he growls, voices like two demonic hums in sync, and as his fists numb my nose — I find a calm. As my throbbing head seems to dull into oblivion, my chest is still very much alive.

      My heart swells, and constricts, and detonates. Blood surges through my body, singing in my veins, ticking and tock-ing and picking and prodding. My fingers snake into the ripped, starched material of his coat, and I find a wallet. ID, social security, licensing, bank statements.

      _All I need._

     “Iʼm a PI, you cannibalistic asshole,” I mutter, wincing at the shrieking pain in my neck.

     And then? 

     Well, my gun crushes his abdomen. Wrapping the collar of his jacket around his neck, my bullets spray his torso, stomach, chest, anywhere I can find.

      The harsh sting of each bullet, the searing vibrations, they all ricochet. Jumping and gyrating in his skin. With a staggering gasp, Alastairʼs body slumps against mine, spluttering over various visitor logs, pictures.

      Very anti-climactic, I know.

      But I have fish to fry.

  
**2**  
_Alice_     
Yokohoma, Japan   
Ōsaka No Byōin  
June, 1968  
11:00 AM  
_____________________

     

      _Mama._

_The silence is so thick that you can cut it with two knives, instead of one. Thick, pervasive, effervescent. Itʼs almost like blood, spreading its tentacles throughout the room. I can almost hear the voice, hear its seductiveness, hear its sinful sound — and itʼs ringing. I assume itʼs ringing._

     Youʼre going to die here, Miss Jackson. Youʼre going to die here and hellʼs an absolute bitch for girls like you.

      _My veins throb against my jaw as they threaten to pop open my jugular. Clutching the visitors logs, my fingers gloss over the cursive scripture, the ancient, rare parchment its written on since parchment is scarce these days, the scratchy detail._

_An hour goes by._

_Maybe two._

_Maybe three._

_I canʼt tell._

      “Mama-a-a...”

_Itʼs a cry. Me, crying. Wondrous, distant, distracted. The halls are whitewhitewhite, and I search. Touch-ing the wallwallwalls._

_The hallway was desolated, with a chill of death hanging limply in the air. I teetered as I walked, dizzy and exhausted as I searched for my Mama..._

_The floorboards creaked as I strolled around aimlessly — a ship lost at sea. Thereʼs light. Glowing light, gold and gilded. I race — race towards it, race with the wind..._

_Mama._

     Mama.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and the hits last chapter guys! Dean is coming :) 
> 
> But anyways, if you couldn’t tell — I’m an original-fic/OC-type writer, but I retell classics in a fanfic type way, so, would any of you like to see other smutty/violent works that are the epitome of sin? Let me know :D


	4. Chapter 1: Desperado (3)

 

 

 **ONE**  
Desperado  
______________

“I was good on my own, thatʼs the way it was; you was good on a low for a faded fuck.”   
— _Rihanna_

 

 **1**  
_Alice_  
Tokyo, Japan  
June, 1989  
1:00 PM  
_____________________

    **The bar is a chic one.** Upscale, classy, with impeccable taste in blackened timber and vinyls. The scent of Monte Cristo cigars flood the room, piano ballads scream in my ears, and plumes of smoke devour the cherry wood flooring and ceilings.

    As I sit at the bar, smothering myself in a sheath of sweat and sultry accents, I wince at the pain of Sinclairʼs bite. Itʼs seductive, exquisite even, with old school red leather booths, bloody steak knives, and all.

_Thatʼs what makes it a great hunting ground. And an even better healing ground._

    Taking a shot of sake, the _best_ damn rice wine in the world, I relish in the warmth and bite back the dry, sweetness and touch the gauge pad wrapped around my neck.

    The musky scent of a spicy cologne overwhelms me, and so does the throbbing in my head. As I glance over the antipsychotic pill bottle I found in the asylum, my momʼs antipsychotic pills, she screams, I scream, and thereʼs just so much screaming.

    _Mama._

_Youʼre going to die here, Miss J._

     The sultry, ambient music of Chris Isaakʼs _Wicked Game_ and the shuddering beat of the classic begins playing. Iʼm drawn to the conceit of it, the raucous depth, the soothing, sleepy accent. Everything about this place is tempting; the apple, intoxicating me in bright colors, and Iʼm drowning.

    Drowning in my motherʼs screams, I tear off the label on the silky smooth antipsychotic pill bottle. I rake it away with my nails, peeling it off like Iʼm peeling off the last of my motherʼs _skin_ as I put it down...

    “Two Americans walk into a Japanese bar. That sounds like the beginning of a bad joke,” someone murmurs, dark and deep.

    “Hey there.”

    His mouth is like a knife, his smile the flicker of light across a blade, and I pull my lips into a crimson smile. Rugged, blackened. His eyes are smoldering, fiery green; so intense that they flicker to black. And as I check him out, red coats his full lips, and his ivory skin glows with vibrancy. A wolf, dressed in impeccable clothing. Like Lucifer, before he fell. I stare at him, rolling my eyes.

    “Hey yourself.”

    He pauses, grinning.

    “You waiting on someone?” he asks, staring at the vacant bar stool next to me. Smoky plumes flow from my mouth like ink, vanishing as the cigarette heat bites into my skin. Charcoal burning brighter than the midnight, consuming, swallowing, christening any fire stirred within.

    “Depends,” I muse, my droll lips forming smoke rings. “If you use another crappy pick up line, well, maybe.”

    He extends a palm, and I take my hand in his.

    Itʼs cold.

    Like ice, skating up to my fingertips.

    “Will do, Miss...”

    “Jackson,” I reply. “Alice Jackson.”

    “Alice.”

    The way it rolls off his mouth sends spiraling chills up my back. Intoxicating, and dreadfully, horribly wrong. But like a moth drawn to a flame, and foams drawn to the rills of ocean waves, I soak him in — the garnishing, glistening, Harlequin view. Thereʼs something sanguine about him, something salacious, and something wicked.

    “Dean,” he replies, matching my coolness. “Dean Winchester.”

    _Hmm_.

    “Seatʼs all yours, Dean.”

    He smiles, again.

    Stark, fierce, primal.

    “Let me get you a drink then, Alice.”

    _The Muse_ has a psychedelic feel to it; like an effluent high. Everything is silky, smooth, the dim lighting soothing — but its also enraptured in darkness.

     Dean is a wild-card, darkness etched into his rough features. His smile predatory as he flags down a bartender for a bottle of sake for the two of us, golden in the glass, and the rich, honeyed aromas wafted into the room.

    Funny.

    He seemed like a beer guy.

    “So, do you always sit next to random strangers and buy them wine?” I ask, coy.

    “Depends on how good lookinʼ they are, darlinʼ,” he muses, smiling subtly.

    “I can agree on that,” I say.

    The guitar strums, haunting but gritty. _Crossroad Blues_ by Robert Johnson begins to get a few strums, so out of place and out-of-tune for a Japanese bar. Thunder crashes in the distance, ricocheting slightly, and it crashes. Down, blessed by its marriage to the lightning, and everything is consumed...by darkness.

     Rills of clouds that string it together — and inside the darkness, there are dancing demons — figments of the shadows, of the murkiness, swaying their hips in an exotic and tribal fashion.

    My breath hitches, and I flush, grabbing some wine. Darkness, itʼs familiar, black clouds that are in Deanʼs eyes — framing them, suffocating them, adulterating and corrupting them.

    The whispers. They grow. Louder, amplifying, crescendoing, _screeching_ , _crying_. And I remember who this man is.

    What he did to me; what he took from me.

    A meat suit from Kansas wonʼt change that.

   Sipping slowly, I place the pill bottle in my purse and wait. For eternity.

    Silence, sweet silence, crescendoing around us.

    “Tell me a lie, Dean,” I say.

    I pause, staring at him.

    Itʼs not intense or anything, but parts of him are radiant. Piercing, magnetic. Grabbing my hand, fingertips skirting along my arms, his thumb traces my veins — the maze of blue and purple and clenched muscles, and pockets a switch blade.

    He traces the dull knife, and his mouth quirks up, drawing blood in one vertically fluid motion across my wrist and towards the center of my palm. Sweaty little slits. Itʼs divine, the sensations cold, chilling, and the blood crusts my hand. Deanʼs tongue pokes out of his mouth.

    “How about I tell you a truth instead?”

    He kisses the wrist, and I just stop, stare, a wicked gleam cast in his eyes, the red on his lips. Itʼs bliss, in a sadistic and awful way, and his tongue ignites fires against my skin; repulsive fires, resplendent fires.

     Lapping up the blood, coaxing his tongue to consume. Threading my hands through this hair, I pause, gasp and grimace — jaw clenched.

    “Shoot,” I breathe.

    Dean lets out a shit-eating grin.

    “Iʼm trying my best to not rip your throat out right now. And Iʼm trying my best not to skin you alive right about now. Actinʼ sweet-and-shy is cute, you know, Alice,” Dean tells me. “Doesnʼt change why Iʼm here.”

     “Pity,” I murmur. “Yʼknow, I assumed that with all the blowjobs youʼd give Cas behind my back, that some backwoods, hillbilly PI wouldnʼt mean jack to you.”

    I pout.

    “Makes this next part less fun.”

    _My turn._

     Grabbing the switch-blade, it brushes Deanʼs hands, tantalizing, teasing, and as I slice — _blood_ , red and black, dirty and pure, flows out of him. Blood spurts out in sickly, sweet rills, devouring and licking his creamy, milky skin with long, prodding, strokes.

    Hot and heavy, as the congealing liquid circled them — chasing them like dogs, lapping up their bare hips and soaking them in their sticky sweetness. His heart pounds, and I hear it as he grits his teeth; the iron dipped edge of the blade shivving off skin.

_I twist the blade._

    “You extorted four million out of my ass and _stole_ my soul and somehow in the entire mess youʼve forgotten just who the hell I am and what the absolute _hell_ I can do to you,” I sneer.

    “Allʼs fair in love and war, Alice — and trust me, the body builderʼs a hundred percent here,” he says, simply, growling.

    “Lean, mean, Dean.”

    “You done, Doctor Seuss?” I snap.

    Dean lets out a string of curses; the pain unbearable.

    “What do you want, Alice? Goddamn it, what do you want?”

    I love him.

    I hate him.

    I love him.

    I hate him —

    — _and I kiss him_.

    Hatefully, scornfully, molding into the flesh as I press my lips to his. Dean reciprocates, surprisingly, and as he reciprocates — moving against me, decadent ripples of heat and sweat filling me up, friction so delicious and so damned, I bite. _Hard_.

     Teeth digging into his skin and blood _gushing_ from his lips. He reaches up to me — seeking, needing, urging, struggling, surging, and I clutch him — desperately, angrily.

    _Youʼre going to die here, Miss Jackson._

    This was what Dean told me a year ago when I sold my soul to the King of the Crossroads and lost everything in the process.

  _Youʼre going to die here_ , he said. _You come after me and youʼre going to die here after I rip you apart, limb-by-limb._

    “I want what Iʼve always wanted, Dean,” I breathe, picking up my stuff and caressing my bloody hand.

    “And whatʼs that?” he asks, baiting, goading.

    I pinch his cheek, and pat it harshly, rolling the flesh underneath my fingernails and digging.

    “To win,” I whisper.

    "And how do you want to do that?" he pants.

     I pant back, smiling wickedly at him; the glint in my eyes magnetic.

     “Oh, I think you know Dean.” 

_I think you know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Hope you liked the foreplay of this chapter; because next up is smut ;) 
> 
> In all seriousness though, if you have a Wattpad account or plan to make one, please please please follow my new campaign: the #BlackLitMatters project that supports diversity and body, skin, sexual, gender-oriented, racial, and political positivity towards people in the black community, as well as fights with the Black Lives Matter movement. There are giveaways, prizes, contests, and free writing advice! Please join! :) 
> 
> Link: https://www.wattpad.com/user/BlackLitMatters

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the Vinyl!verse of Supernatural. This is an AU that I originally posted to Wattpad and decided to post here. Dean, Sam, Cas, Crowley, and everyone else act a bit different, so I hope it’s not too much of a burden. 
> 
> Enjoy!


End file.
